Author Notes : Ah, my loyal reviewers. *smiles benevolently at you* shirebound – any family that wouldn't worry about its children is dysfunctional to the Nth degree. Coming from a large, close-knit, Italian family, I wouldn't know. So the Gamgees care, and care deeply for their sweet and wonderful little boy. ^_^ TK – thanks ! I try to make it believable. More Frodo and Sam for you to gush about in this chapter. Please, gush away ! I encourage gushing ! Tigrin – I've always believed that love transcends years ^_^ Don't be nervous ! They'll get better ! tiggivon – I thought it was a nice twist, too. I mean, nobody ever writes anything about Sam's family. So I did. And to leave your child when he's sick – I can't even imagine how hard that must be. Butterfly – wai ! wai ! my boof has reviewed ! what a loyal and loving boof ! What did I ever do to deserve you ? Je t'aime toujours ! IloveSam - *winces* Sorry if I went a little overboard. I wrote the last chapter in kind of a rush, and didn't have time to read it over and edit it. I'll try to keep sweetness levels up, but saccharine levels down, okay ? ^_^ Mistress-Samwise - you go 'yee-yay !' too ? I thought that was my sound of hyper-happiness ! Btw, I wrote a new fic called « Going On ». Sam-Frodo PG-13. Check it out ! Major Sam angst. *kisses her Sam doll*. So, I think that covers last chapters reviewers. Trills, when you have time to read this – you are the greatest, the absolute greatest ! You give me such encouragement ! Here, have a cookie ! Okay, this is the next morning. We're back to Bag End and our beautiful boys.
« Frodo ? Samwise ? » Bilbo said softly, stepping into the bedroom. The boys were fast asleep, curled close together under a tangle of blankets. Frodo's arms were still tight around Sam, his face pressed to the curve of Sam's neck. They were both frowning intently in their sleep, and Bilbo wondered what it was they were dreaming. My boys, he thought fondly, and walked to the bedside.
Taking hold of Frodo's shoulder, he shook it gently. Frodo shrugged him away and tightened his arms around Sam. Bilbo smiled, amused, and shook Frodo's shoulder again, this time with a little more force. Frodo woke with a start and stared up at him blankly for a moment. Then recognition flashed in his eyes, and closing them, he sank back down onto his pillows.
« What ? » he mumbled sleepily. Sam, beside him, had felt Frodo awaken, and his own eyes opened. He looked at Bilbo without comprehension before looking to Frodo. Who - ? he asked. He was so tired and disoriented, he wasn't sure where he was or what he was doing there. Bilbo, Frodo answered. Go back to sleep. Sam nodded and closed his eyes again, but Bilbo shook his shoulder, too, and he looked up. His mind was clouded with sleep and pain, and all he could think to say was, « Go away. »
Bilbo burst out laughing at this, thouroughly confusing the small boy who looked up at him tiredly. « Sorry, Samwise, » Bilbo said. « But I've got to feed you. »
« Feed us ? » asked Frodo. « But it's still dark out. It's too early for food. Or anything else, for that matter, » he said, and pulling Sam closer to him, he closed his eyes. It was indeed still dark out. The rain had continued all through the night, and though it was no longer quite the flood it had shown itself to be at first, it was still a very heavy rain. Low, grey clouds were all that could be seen, turning the sky the color of wet stone from horizon to horizon. Bilbo had brought a candle in with him to light the room, and in its dim, yellow flicker, it still seemed to be night time.
The time was, in fact, ten-thirty in the morning. The boys had been sleeping since eight o'clock the previous evening, and Bilbo was of the firm opinion that growing boys – especially sick growing boys – should not go more than twelve hours without food. He would have woken them at eight, but they were sleeping so heavily he just let them be. Now, however, they were awake, and he was going to see that they got breakfast.
« Actually, nephew, it's ten-thirty, » he said. Frodo opened his eyes again and frowned at him.
« Impossible, » he said. « We haven't been asleep for that long. »
« You're cursed, » Sam said suddenly, and coughed. Bilbo raised his brows.
« What's that supposed to mean, lad ? » he asked.
« Frodo – » cough « Frodo said that – » cough, cough « that he was going to – » Sam broke off completely as the coughing grew worse. Frodo sat up and pounded him on the back until he choked, and breathed again. Are you alright, little one ? he asked. Sam nodded. You said you were goin' to sleep for a hundred years an' a curse on the person who woke you, he said. So Master Bilbo's cursed. Frodo grinned at this. I was teasing, Sam, he said. Besides, Bilbo's too nice to curse, don't you think ? The hobbit in question had no idea what was going on as they looked at eachother, their eyes brightening and smiles growing on their lips.
« Going to what, Sam ? » he asked.
« I said I was going to sleep for a hundred years, and a curse on the person who woke me up. So Sam says you're cursed. You woke me up, » Frodo explained, trying to hide a smile. Bilbo grinned back at him.
« Oh, I am, am I ? Well, if that's the way you feel about it, I suppose I won't be giving you breakfast after all, » he teased. Frodo, now fully awake, was suddenly, almost painfully hungry.
« Sorry, Bilbo, » he apologized hastily. « We didn't mean it . » Bilbo laughed.
« It's alright, cousin. I didn't mean it either. See if you two can get up and force yourselves to the kitchen sometime in the next half-hour, alright ? »
« Alright, » they said in unison.
« Good boys, » he said, and left the room.
Get up, Frodo thought. Alright. I can do that. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, clutching at the blankets as a wave of dizziness washed over him. His head started to pound and he realized suddenly that not only his head hurt, but his throat and his chest and his entire body hurt as well. So maybe I can't do that, he thought dryly. Maybe I should wait a while before I try this again…He fell back against his pillows, and felt a jolt of pain go through Sam. Don't bounce, the child instructed. Sorry, said Frodo. Well. And how are you doing this morning, Master Samwise ? Sam giggled at the formality of Frodo's tone. Leave off, he said laughing. I'm alright. My ankle hurts somethin' terrible and my head feels like it's full of rocks and my chest feels like it's full of water, but I'm alright. Frodo began to laugh. Good grief. If that's 'alright', I'd hate to see you on a bad day, he teased. Silver tingled in his mind, and he laughed again.
Then his breathing hitched, and he began to choke, going from laughing to struggling for air. Sam sat up and pounded his small fists against Frodo's back, though it didn't do much good. Frodo's cheeks were red and turning darker, and he twisted the blankets between his fingers as he choked. Then the tightness in his chest loosened suddenly, and he coughed, a deep, wet, ragged cough. He tasted salt and something else that he didn't want to dwell on. Handkerchief, he thought, fumbling with the drawers in his nightstand and pulling out a handkerchief. Fortunately, it was not a new one, nor one of Bilbo's good linen ones, because Frodo put it to his mouth and spat. Yeccch, he thought disgustedly. The phlegm he had coughed up was yellow, streaked with darker gold. Frodo balled the handkerchief up and threw it into the fire, where it quickly incinerated.
He felt a small soft hand on his shoulder, and turned. Sam was looking at him warily. You're alright now ? he asked. Frodo thought a moment. His chest ached from the coughing fit and his throat felt torn and raw, but he could breathe again. I suppose so, he said. He sat a long moment on the edge of the bed, letting the pain ebb. Does your throat hurt ? he asked Sam suddenly. The little boy nodded. How about your chest ? Sam nodded again. I hurt where you hurt, he said. Frodo groaned and closed his eyes. Perfect. Just perfect. I bring you all the way home through the wind and the lightning and the pouring rain with a broken ankle and a bleeding foot I get you warm and safe and dry and all your hurts tended to. And then what ? I give you bronchitis. Some friend I am, he thought unhappily. You brought me all the way home through the wind and the lightning with a broken ankle and a bleeding foot you got me warm and safe and dry and healed. I had bronchitis anyway, Sam said gently. An' even if I didn't, you're still my best friend. Frodo smiled half-heartedly.
« Well, thanks, » he murmured. « But I still feel rotten. » A picture formed in his mind of the hollow, and him rocking Sam to sleep as they hid there from the drenching rain. He turned to the child questioningly. You're still my best friend, Sam said again. Frodo reached out and tousled his hair and they looked at eachother for a moment, smiling. Then, with a sigh, Frodo got to his feet. He clutched the edge of his nightstand, somewhat unsteady on his feet. When he got his balance, he went over to his chest of drawers. Have to get dressed, he thought tiredly. I don't want to get dressed. My head hurts too much for me to get dressed. He laughed shortly at the ridiculousness of the thought. What exactly does my head have to do with my getting dressed, anyway ? Alright, clothes…
Pulling open one of the drawers, he searched through it disinterestedly for a moment, not really caring what he found. Something warm, he knew he wanted. He was feverish, and being feverish made him cold. Getting out of bed made him colder, and he was shivering a little as he stood there, lifting folded tunics one by one and considering them. Not a one that's warm enough for me. He was frustrated, and pulled open another drawer. Still nothing. The third drawer contained breeches, the fourth, sashes. These aren't any good till I find a tunic to go with them ! Frodo slammed the drawers shut irritably, and pulled open the last one. He froze. Frodo ? Sam asked, confused at his sudden silence. Frodo, what's wrong ?
Frodo couldn't move, could barely even think as he crouched there, staring. The large oak drawer was almost empty, except for three things, neatly folded and laid in the back corner – a heavy black woolen tunic, black breeches, and black sash. Funeral clothes. Frodo had neither worn them nor seen them since his parents were buried he didn't know he still had them. Bilbo, when helping him pack, had folded these up and placed them in Frodo's chest of things. They were good clothes, winter clothes, heavy and warm and soft. Despite the bad connotations they might have, they were still good for several years of wear. When he and Frodo had arrived at Bag End, he had taken them and placed them in the bottom dresser drawer. There they had lain, for more than two months, forgotten.
Frodo stared at them, open-mouthed. All the color had drained from his face. He remembered, and did not want to remember – the sight of the coffins, so small, too small to really hold his parents, as they were lowered into the ground the heavy sound of dirt hitting the lids, and the utter finality of that moment. He remembered the crumbling feel of the soil in his hand, as he threw in his handful over his parents' grave. It was warm that day, too warm, and the clothes were too hot and too heavy. He remembered the salty taste of the sweat that trickled down his face – sweat, not tears. He was still too shocked for tears. The sun was too bright and the air was too still, as though the world had fallen silent in mourning. He remembered all this, so suddenly, so vividly it physically hurt.
Frodo, Frodo, it's alright, he heard the boy soothe him. They're just clothes. He nodded and swallowed. Right. Just clothes. With trembling hands, he reached out and touched rich dark fabric. Just clothes, he realized, with a sobbing breath of relief. He didn't know what exactly he'd expected them to be, but the sight of them had terrified him beyond reason. Now, holding them, he knew that they were just cloth. Cloth and thread, and nothing more. The tunic was heavy and soft, and he realized it was probably the warmest thing he owned. For a moment, the thought of putting on his 'funeral clothes' to keep warm sickened him. He moved to place them in the drawer and slam it shut. Then his innate practicality won out. They're just clothes, he thought. And they're the warmest clothes you have. So stop dawdling and put them on. Standing slowly, he undressed, and very, very slowly put the clothes on. Sam had said nothing during all of this, but Frodo felt the mental equivalent of a steadying hand on his back, and was deeply grateful to him for it. The tunic slipped over his head, and then he tied the sash around his waist, making the knot tight. This finishing gesture served to dissolve the uncertainty in his mind, and he stopped feeling so strange. Just clothes, he said again, and nodded to himself.
Finding clothes for Sam was easier, and he quickly picked out a thick grey tunic, not unlike the one he had worn the night before. Finding a black sash to go with it, he returned to the bedside and helped the child dress. The blue tunic he laid aside, for Sam to wear later. Helping Sam get the grey tunic on and tying the sash about his narrow waist, he stood back and surveyed his handywork. Sam looked at him expectantly, and he smiled. You're pretty, he told him, and Sam smiled back.
« Are you boys dressed ? » Bilbo called from the hallway. « Breakfast is ready ! »
« Hungry ? » asked Frodo.
« Not really, » Sam answered. « But seein' as he went to the trouble of making it… » Frodo laughed.
« Alright, then. Here, put your arms around my neck. Tell me if I hurt you. One, two, three… » he lifted Sam into his arms. Sam winced, but did not cry out, and Frodo was relieved. « Good. Let's go eat. » And he carried Sam down the hallways to the warm, bright kitchen of Bag End.
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